


Theirs

by IAmYourWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, John has many talents, Johnlock Challenges, Love Confessions, M/M, Musicians, Non-Explicit, Sherlock and his violin, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmYourWatson/pseuds/IAmYourWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>221b Baker Street is still the same. A skull on the mantle, a knife through the bills, outdated Victorian wallpaper, and a messy kitchen with strange experiments. But these were all just hobbies, minutiae. For this Sherlock Holmes is not a consulting detective, although he still observes far more than the average human. </p><p>This Sherlock is a concert violinist. </p><p>****</p><p>Written for pickledfingers for the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange. Hope you like it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theirs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pickledfingers on tumblr for the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange. The prompt was: “John and sherlock as either muscians or actors. I know I’m really vague on this, but I want to give the artist/writer who gets me as much room to move as possible. it’s nicer not to know what to expect. Any rating.”
> 
> So I started writing one that ended sounding too much like "Performance in a Leading Role," so I changed tactics and wrote this. I'm much more satisfied with this story anyway. Hope you like it! Critiques always welcome!

221b Baker Street is still the same. A skull on the mantle, a knife through the bills, outdated Victorian wallpaper, and a messy kitchen with strange experiments. But these were all just hobbies, minutiae. For this Sherlock Holmes is not a consulting detective, although he still observes far more than the average human.

 

This Sherlock is a concert violinist. The only one in the world.

 

Well, obviously he isn’t, but he’s the only one in the world to ever sign a contract with the London Philharmonic at the age of 16 (and only because at 13 he was considered too young for the extensive travelling the company did). He’s the only violinist to compose his own music and play it on the same day, to great critical acclaim. He’s the only one to criticize the great masters and get away with it (with some grumbling from one Greg Lestrade, conductor of the Philharmonic). He’s also the only violinist in the world that lives with one John Watson, amateur guitarist and licensed physician.

 

* * *

 

It had never been John’s intention to be a musician. Ever since he was little, he’d wanted to be a doctor. He wanted to help people, fix the hurts he saw in the world. And as he grew older, the appeal of begin a soldier grew as well. In the Army, he could fight for something, for his country, and he could fix the people who were fighting to keep his country safe. His head was filled with heady ideas and patriotic duty, and he signed up as soon as he had his medical degree.

 

War changed him. He’d never had any delusions that war was a place of honor and glory; he knew how to separate the romantic ideal from the harsh realities of war. But the blood, the death, it haunted him to this day, long after he returned home. All the men who’d died, the ones he’d killed in self-defense, the ones he’d lost on the operating table, and the ones who’d bled out before he could even get to them. The shot to the shoulder was the last straw. He felt useless, unnecessary, a man without purpose in London in a tiny bedsit.

 

But there was something else to him, beyond the medical skills and the fighting spirit. He also had quite a talent for music, specifically the guitar. In his youth he’d studied it, much like his contemporaries had been forced to sit through hours of piano lessons by parents who thought that their child was the next Mozart. During medical school it had been something to do that wasn’t studying or going to the occasional party with Stamford. When he was at war, he didn’t have a guitar of his own, but sometimes an American would have dragged one along for the ride and he’d borrow it and play songs his Da had taught him, tunes from Scotland or the countryside of England. All the men loved it when he played, said he had a talent. He thought little of it then, it was just a hobby.

 

When his shoulder was shot, and the physical therapist suggested that he take up guitar again, well, he figured, why not? It would work his muscles and give him something to do. So he played in his tiny little bedsit, all alone, no audience, just himself and the memories that haunted him.

 

Then, one day, Mike Stamford walked back into his life, and his world changed.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock Holmes is not a man who is easily impressed. His brother was the British Government, his mother was a former assassin and his father was the most important secret agent in England once upon a time, until he had retired. Sherlock was used to grand people and their grand designs, passions, and accolades. So when he’d offhandedly mentioned to Stamford that he was looking for a flatmate while experimenting in the St. Bart’s lab (which is parents had made generous donations to ages ago), he hadn’t expected the rotund doctor to come up with anyone.

 

The fact that Stamford had managed to find the one man in London that, to this day, impressed him was nothing short of a miracle. And Sherlock didn’t believe in miracles.

 

Some people would say it was love at first sight. Sherlock would tell those people they were wrong. John would smile and say something about how he wasn’t exactly looking for someone at the time, so he wouldn’t know. Both are telling the truth, in their own way. But after only knowing each other for a day, John shot a cabbie that had kidnapped Sherlock right in front of the Royal Festival Hall after rehearsal. Sherlock knew he’d found the one the moment he figured out it was John who had rescued him. This man was it. No one else would hold his attention for so long, be so unpredictable, so loyal.

 

It took John longer, but you’ll have to forgive him, he’s a bit slow compared to Sherlock (but then again, everyone is). Sometime after Sherlock had given what was hailed “the greatest solo of his career so far,” they’d attended a circus given by Chinese performers and had been caught in the middle of a raid by the Yard. Turns out, the performers were part of a smuggling ring, and Sherlock, having noticed something off about them, had tipped off Mycroft just after entering the building.

 

Needless to say, John’s date with Sarah, the woman who ran the surgery he worked at, wasn’t impressed with the date being ruined by his know-it-all friend, and that had ended the relationship there. Sherlock, on the other hand, was rather pleased with himself, even though he complained about how slow the Yard and Mycroft were these days. John would never admit it, but he’d been impressed too. So he’d dropped Sarah off, gone out to eat Indian with Sherlock, and decided to have a nice quiet weekend.

 

Two hours into the Saturday of that weekend, Sherlock had noticed that John’s relationship was over before it had begun, and John was rather down. So he’d taken out his violin (a rare Stradivarius) and had played some of John’s favorite pieces. Sometime between Bach and Brahms, John realized something. He really wasn’t all that down about Sarah cutting things off. Rather, he was upset that it wasn’t Sherlock he’d taken to the circus. Maybe, just maybe, he was falling in love.

 

It took a year, an explosion across the street from their flat (gas leak) and Sherlock’s discovery of a fake Vermeer when John dragged him to the art gallery for John to realize something rather important: he hadn’t been on a date with anyone, man or woman, in a long time. And he didn’t mind it.

 

It took him a few more minutes to realize that he actually _had_ been on dates, just with Sherlock. And he’d enjoyed every minute of them.

 

Over the next few days, he examined his feelings for his talented flatmate, while his eyes examined the flatmate in question as well. No one could deny that Sherlock had an exotic, ethereal beauty, but John knew the violinist better than anyone else. He knew that Sherlock had a sweet tooth, that he liked it when it rained but not when it snowed, that he was fond of QI despite declaring it “dull!” John knew that Sherlock worried about his doctor sometimes, especially when John had caught the flu and was almost immobile for days. He knew what Sherlock liked to eat, what his favorite color was, and how lovely his eyes were in the sun when he smiled. It was easy to come to his conclusion: he was absolutely, madly, head-over-heels in love with his strange violinist.

 

That day, John wrote a song for the first time in his life.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had always known that John was a guitarist. The calluses on his hands gave him away at first glance. But he’d never asked why John didn’t like talking about it, which was a first for him. Mycroft once told him it was sentiment, but Sherlock had shrugged it off, saying it was just a tactic to keep the first steady flatmate he’d had in his life from leaving. Later he realized, much to his dismay, that Mycroft was right.

 

Fat tosser.

 

Sherlock had never felt any need or want for emotions and all the nasty business that went along with them. Caring was not an advantage, and Sherlock was a man who cultivated his advantages and killed off his disadvantages. So he kept his heart under lock and key and hid it away deep in his mind palace. Every small pang of loneliness hurt less than the inevitable heartbreak would if he let his heart out. But without his knowledge or permission, his heart had escaped its prison and made a break for it. The moment John had hobbled into his life, his heart had beat against its cage and tried its best to break free. And when John smiled at him, the keys appeared and his heart won out.

 

The violinist had never lied to himself before, and now was no different. He was in love with John Watson, with his mild manners and hidden ferocity. The man’s eyes were sharp but kind, his voice soft but strong, his body dangerous and attractive, and most importantly of all, the man could not only stand Sherlock, he seemed to _thrive_ when the violinist was around. That, along with the fact that John loved waking up to violin music late at night, even though he pretended to grouch about it, was enough evidence to prove that John was the one. The only one, because how could you replicate John Watson?

 

However, Sherlock knew that nothing would ever come of it. Even though Sherlock knew every note of every symphony he’d ever played, every aria, every chord, he did not know how to pursue a romantic relationship. And John was straight, he’d insisted every time the subject was brought up. Sherlock held out no hope.

 

Until one morning, it was he who was woken by music. Guitar music.

 

* * *

 

 

It took a while, but after some aborted attempts, John fell back into the old rhythm of playing and “jamming,” as it were. He played some old Beatles songs for the fun of it, then a few Scottish tunes his father had insisted he learn, and then he was finally ready for the big moment. He’d chosen the best possible day to compose: Sherlock was at practice for the whole day, and Mrs. Hudson was at her sister’s house. John had “borrowed” some of Sherlock’s blank music sheets (what, the man stole his possessions all the time!) and had a sharpened pencil.

 

At this point in time, most people would have had either the whole song planned out in their mind, or they would have no idea what they wanted to do. John was in the middle. He had notes, chords, progressions in his mind’s ear, but nothing coherent. Just…bits of Sherlock. High notes for his manic movements, slow chords for his voice, a complex series of notes that matched the often staccato rhythm of Sherlock’s mind.

 

Sherlock was the problem-solver of the two of them. He could take an idea and fulfill it, push it to the limits, and make it work perfectly. John was a little slower, crafting things with care and love, although the attention to detail matched Sherlock’s. One had to be detail-oriented to become a good doctor. The same thing, it seemed, applied to being a guitarist.

 

It took him three hours, a cup of tea, and a few biscuits before he finally was inspired. He felt the music like one feels a tremor in the Earth. He didn’t realize he’d missed this feeling, pushed to the back of his mind for most of his adult life, but it was free now, and John let himself be carried by it.

 

Another three hours later, he had a song. One hour after that, he had it all written down neatly, in ink.

 

A half hour later, his things were put away, and Sherlock returned home.

 

* * *

 

The morning that Sherlock awoke to the sounds of a guitar being played was one month after John had written the song. John Watson was a brave man, but when one’s heart was entered into the equation, things became more complex, and brave men trembled before the possibility of their hearts being broken. So he waited until there was a slow day to play his piece. Sherlock was well rested after a long performance the night before, and when John heard his flatmate begin to stir, he brought out his instrument, got comfortable on a stool, and began to play.

 

Sherlock had an ear for music. That was an understatement. But this song was something new, something he’d never heard before. An original piece, then, but whose? He stumbled out of bed, wrapping his dressing gown (bath robe, John called it, pah!) around himself and blinked in the warm morning sunlight. All thoughts of figuring out who the composer was faded from his mind as he gasped. Before him was John, his John, in his best jumper and jeans, barefoot (vulnerable), playing the guitar Sherlock knew he had but never asked about. There was sheet music lying forgotten on the coffee table, and a cursory glance told Sherlock that the song was indeed original. It had been written by John.

 

There were no lyrics, no vocals. John’s lips never moved, save for one grimace when he overstretched his wounded shoulder. It was hard for Sherlock to describe the piece during the performance, although afterwards he would spend a week analyzing every note and forming his opinions. As it played, he had only one thought on his mind: John loves me too. He loves me too. He loves me too.

 

“I love you too.”

 

John looked up, startled. He’d been drawing out the last note when Sherlock’s voice, uncharacteristically soft, had spoken to him. “Wh-wha…?”

 

“I love you too.” Sherlock’s smile was warm and soft. He’d blame the fact that he’d just woken up later, but John knew better.

 

“…How did you kn---no, never mind, dumb question.” He set his guitar down on his chair and stood. His leg didn’t send shooting pain signals to his brain, and his hands were still. The doctor stopped in front of his friend (crush?) and met his gaze. “…If this is an experiment, I’m going to throttle you.”  
  
Sherlock’s laugh was merry and real, as was his crooked smile. “No, it’s not, John.” He leaned his forehead against John’s. “I knew you could play, the calluses on your hands gave you away. But what I didn’t know is that you loved me too. I’ve been, as Mrs. Hudson would say, ‘head-over-heels’ for you for some time now. It was rather tedious, I’m not doing it again.” He smiled and leaned back, his eyes catching John’s. “Mycroft would have a field day. He told me to watch for the signs, the signs of sentiment. I just didn’t realize until now that he meant to watch _you_ , not myself.”

 

John wondered if he was dreaming. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? Harry would march in and wake him up, he’d be late for school. Or gunfire would blast through this moment and he’d be off and running to save someone’s life again. Or maybe, worst of all, he’d wake to the silence of his bedsit.

           

Oh please, don’t let me wake up.

 

“It’s not a dream, John.” Sherlock chuckled, his tentative grin made a little stronger by his laughter. “…I’m sorry it took me so long, my dear John. I’ve spent my whole life ignoring my emotions, my heart, but then you hobble into my life and everything comes pouring out. I would despise you for it, but it seems my heart has decided that you’re the one. And I quite agree with it.” He knew that he sounded like a sentimental idiot, but he frankly didn’t care at this moment. “You care about me, genuinely. You think I’m brilliant, but you bring me down to earth when I need it. You make me eat, you make me sleep, you watch crap telly with me and you don’t mind it so much when I ruin the mystery for you, unless it’s Doctor Who. Why do you even like that show? Never mind. The point is…the point is that I have fallen in love with you, John Watson. And I would very much appreciate it if you fell in love with me too, to make things even.”

           

While John was an eloquent enough writer, and he seemed to have developed a knack for speaking through music, if Sherlock’s confession was anything to go by, but he was, at his heart, a man of action. So instead of stumbling through his innermost feelings and making a complete fool of himself (even though he was fairly sure Sherlock wouldn’t mind), he decided to show what he felt.

 

He kissed Sherlock, on the lips, in the middle of their flat, in broad daylight, with Mrs. Hudson bustling around downstairs, completely oblivious.

 

This is the part, in most romantic films, were the music swells and some romantic it-girl singer belts out a ballad about true love or a velvet-voiced man croons about how love sneaks up on you or some cheesy instrumental highlights the moment. In reality, though, the flat was fairly quiet but for the slightly shocked moan of one concert violinist. And just as they had fit into each other’s lives like a key to a lock, so too did they fall into kissing each other like they’d been at it forever.

 

They didn’t let go of each other for the rest of the day, save for the one time John managed to convince Sherlock that eating would lead to more kissing. Then Sherlock ate faster than any man John had ever seen.  

 

* * *

 

Years from now, in a small cottage in Sussex that hummed with the buzzing of bees and the sweet strains of an old Stradivarius mixing with the strumming of a worn guitar, John would think back on this moment and proudly declare (in his mind, of course) that this was the moment his life became utterly perfect. Not that it was “perfect” by any stretch of the imagination. Sherlock was still stroppy, bossy, and loud, and John was a stubborn ex-Army doctor with a penchant for cuddly jumpers. They fought, they got caught up in crime scenes far too often for John’s taste, they made love and got married. John attended all of Sherlock’s concerts, and Sherlock was always in the front row of the very private performances John gave (attendance was limited to Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and sometimes Mycroft, Lestrade, or Molly).

 

No, it wasn’t perfect according to society’s rules, but it was theirs, and they loved it. Maybe, in some other life, they would have met in a hospital, and Sherlock would have been a detective, or a chef, or a florist, or a spy. When John thinks on it, he realizes it wouldn’t have mattered what Sherlock did for a living; he’d still whisk John off into a whirlwind of adventure, and John would loyally follow him to the ends of the earth. This time, though, all it took was a song for them to get their acts together.

 

To this day, the song doesn’t have a title. But when John thinks about naming it, he can’t think of any title that could fit it. Sherlock has his own, but he never tells John.

 

He calls the song “Theirs.”


End file.
